Roses Are Red
by ArixaBell
Summary: England and Russia both want America. Russia's attempts to copy England's wooing methods leave something to be desired.
1. Chapter 1

_England and Russia both want America. Russia's attempts to copy England's wooing methods leave something to be desired._

_Disclaimer: Hetalia's not mine._

* * *

"Must you do this?" Canada complained, maliciously swiping the last pizza slice. "Nobody even remembers I exist. I don't need you to come over here and rub in my face that you have two guys pursuing you."

"I'm not rubbing it in your face!" America gave him a look that was the very picture of innocence. "It's something brothers talk about. I'd only rub it in your face if it were a happy situation..." He snuggled back in the couch, grabbing his soda.

Canada sighed. "What's wrong with England?"

"Nothing, nothing. He is the one who raised me, though. I don't know..." America shook his head. "And Russia's... Russia."

"Well, if you're so eager to talk about it. They both sent you flowers, then?"

"Yeah. I got England's a couple days ago, then Russia's the next day. Same exact kind, too."

His northern brother chuckled. "Russia's copying him, then?"

"Maybe... What should I do?"

Canada chewed slowly for a moment, lost in thought. Finally, his eyes brightened, and he said, "Pick Russia."

"_What?_" America sat straight up, almost spilling his drink. "Are you joking?"

"No. You already have good ties with England. May as well strengthen relations with Russia."

"You're crazy!"

"You asked." Finished eating, Canada wandered off, leaving America alone to reflect on his mournful situation. He _liked_ his current state of bachelorhood. He wasn't sure if he wanted to settle down with _anyone_ in a serious relationship. If he did, did he want it to be with either of them? He had no idea. Life had been a lot simpler just a few days ago, before a bouquet of roses had arrived at his door. Really, roses? England didn't seem like the mushy type. Nor did Russia, but he had probably just witnessed England's order, somehow, and tried the same thing.

"Now this is silly," Canada's voice floated in as his brother returned, carrying a stack of mail he must have just retrieved. "You're having your mail forwarded here? How long were you planning on staying?"

"Oh, no, I just told England I'd be here..." America accepted the envelopes. One from England. One from Russia... "Great."

"Open them up!" Canada plopped back on the couch, watching intently. His eyes sparkled like jewels behind his lenses, full of mirth.

"I thought you didn't care."

"I don't. But it's still entertaining."

America sighed and tore open England's envelope. It contained a store-bought card, saturated in hearts and doves and other typical romantic decorations. He opened it up and stared. The entire inside (and the back, he noted upon flipping it over) was covered in tiny script. An epic poem. He tried valiantly to read it a few times before giving up, head hurting. The language was antique, all 'thee's and 'thou's and America couldn't get from one end of a sentence to the other.

"I must admit." Canada plucked the card away to examine it. "I'm impressed. I had no idea the foul-mouthed pirate could be so eloquent."

"I don't know what the hell he's trying to say!" America dug into the second envelope, dread building in the pit of his stomach. The card was actually rather similar. Not the exact same one, but definitely chosen from the same selection in the store. He opened it up, and let out a relieved sigh when he saw the mercifully short poem. "Let's see. 'Roses are red-"

Canada interrupted with a groan. "Don't tell me he went with _that_ corny old poem."

"Seems so. 'Roses are red, green is the stem. Your eyes are so pretty, I want to eat them.'" He looked up. "That's... that's just..."

"Are you sure he likes you?" His twin's expression grew worried as he took that card, too.

"I think so... It probably would have been a lot worse otherwise."

"I guess the sentiment is kind of sweet," Canada mused. "Maybe you _should_ pick Russia."

"Why would you suggest that again?"

"England probably accepts rejection better..."

America stood, running his hands through his hair. "I'll be in the tub." He headed off to soak his troubles away. Maybe if he just ignored them, they'd leave him alone...

That line of thinking rarely worked, though. The next day, Canada once again brought in two envelopes for his brother along with the rest of the mail. The one from England was quite thin. The one from Russia was alarmingly thick. What had he _sent_?

"Go on, open it!" Canada almost seemed to be enjoying the situation now. Well, nobody paid attention to him and he lived in a frozen wasteland, what else did he have to do, America thought bitterly.

"I'm opening." England had sent a photo. America's frosty fear melted a bit. "Aww..." It was a picture of the two of them, taken not long ago. They looked happy together. "I remember that."

"That's cute," Canada said. "So what about Russia?"

"I haven't had any photos taken with him..." America set England's picture aside, and opened up the next envelope. It contained a fat stack of pictures. How strange. The top one was of him, standing before a PowerPoint presentation, arms in mid-gesture.

"That's from the last G8 meeting," Canada said. "I remember wondering what you were thinking with that tie."

"So he took a picture of my presentation? That's not the most romantic thing to send me." He flipped that picture to the back, examining the next one. "Me again, sitting down." Then the next. "Me eating. Me leaving. Me getting in the elevator. Me getting something else to eat. Me calling a taxi. Me walking into my hotel. Me showering. Still showering. And another. Me sleeping. Me sleeping again. And another one. And another..." America handed the stack of photos to his brother. "Okay. That's a little weird."

"A little? I'd suggest you call the cops, if that wouldn't spark an international outrage or something." Canada flipped through the pictures, forehead creased. "You might want to hire a bodyguard at the next meeting."

"Maybe so..."

* * *

America had actually shown up early for the meeting. As he made himself comfortable in his chair, retrieving his note cards from their home in his briefcase, he idly wondered if he had made a mistake. Coming in late may get him yelled at, but it wouldn't provide any opportunity for creepy stalkers to corner him alone. He cringed in anticipation as footsteps approached, but it wasn't Russia.

"What are _you_ doing here already?" Germany wondered.

"I'm early sometimes." America huddled down in his chair, wanting to hide, as unheroic as that was. But at least now there would be one witness. France filed in next, followed by Italy, and his relief grew.

Then came England. Well, he wasn't the scary one, at least. Though America still wanted to hide under the table when he saw what England was _carrying_. Judging by the Brit's face, he wasn't any happier to be seen in public with a large heart-shaped box.

"Here." England shoved it unceremoniously into his hands.

"Um, thanks." If it was so embarrassing, why was he doing it?

"I thought this sort of stuff worked on you," England muttered, as if reading his thoughts. "Like in your stupid movies."

He sure knew how to woo a guy. "Thanks. But I'm just not sure..."

Looking annoyed, England stormed off and dropped into his seat.

With a shrug, America peered into the box, and grinned. The chocolates looked pretty good! He decided to find out for sure.

"England gave you a heart?"

America jerked up with a yelp, chocolate dropping back into its box. "R-Russia! Don't do that. Um, yes, he-"

"I shall give you one."

"Did you..." America trailed off, remembering. A certain creepy meeting during the war... "No no, Russia, you don't have to!" But it was too late. It was dropped on the table in front of him with a wet _plop_. "Ah..." He looked up into Russia's sincere face. "But... don't you need that to live?"

"Your concern touches me, but I will be fine. Please hold onto it." He made his way to his own chair, looking pleased with himself.

"Thanks, Russia." America tried to ignore the large bloody lump in front of him as he gathered his notes together for his inspiring speech on how Autobots could protect them from global warming, volcanoes, oil spills, _and _Decepticons.

* * *

America set the beating heart on his mantle, beside the pair of cards. He stood back to take the scenery in, frowning, tilting his head, shrugging, and even starting to smile a little. Well, he supposed it wasn't too bad. And kind of romantic, in its own creepy way. He glanced down at the pair of boxes he had found waiting for him by his front door. Those two just _would not stop_! And he just wasn't sure if he felt that way about either of them. He even found himself conflicted about _Russia_, who was crazy but seemed to mean well... Maybe Canada was right. Maybe he should choose the country he could certainly stand to be on better terms with, who would possibly go batshit insane about being rejected.

On the other hand, England was someone he already cared for. And he, too, seemed to mean well, however grumpy. And his gifts didn't involve stalking or blood.

On the _other_ hand, their gifts seemed to be getting bigger, so if he continued to hold out...

Smiling to himself, America hunkered down to open up his packages. He ripped the brown paper off, and sliced into the tape. From England's box, he pulled out a big floppy rabbit plushie. "How cute!" He hugged the toy. "You are so cute. I'll have to come up with a good name for you! Here, you sit right there on the couch. Let's see who else we've got!" He eagerly tore into the second package, figuring Russia couldn't have screwed up in whatever toy store he had followed England to. "Oh, wow..." He examined the second rabbit toy, eyes widening. Impressive! It was so soft, and so realistic, and... "You used to be alive, didn't you..."

* * *

It seemed England had had enough. The letter he had sent requested a meeting, possibly to force him to choose between his suitors. As usual, he had received two. "Dear America," he read from England's letter, "you have captured my heart. Let us meet tonight at seven at..." He trailed off, reading the rest internally.

Russia's letter was worded the same, down to the time and place. There was only one small difference in the opening. "Dear America, I have captured your brother..."

* * *

America flung the building's roof door open, hearing them before seeing them. "It's _cheating_," England was saying. "You can't force him to date you!"

"I'm not forcing anything." Russia's voice was as calm as ever.

America found them facing off near the center of the roof, a helicopter beside them for some reason. Not that 'facing off' was the best way to describe them, England standing on tiptoe to yell at Russia.

"I can come back later," America said, and the combatants froze.

"We weren't doing anything," Russia said, giving England a friendly pat on the head.

"Right..." England scowled up at him, then plastered on a fake smile. "So, America, I know that you-"

"Never mind the speeches and sweet talk." America shook his head. "Like you've given me any choice in the matter. Let Canada go, then let's get this date over with."

Russia grinned at England, who turned away in disgust. "Whatever you want!" He reached into the helicopter and removed the bound and gagged young nation by the scruff of his neck. America blinked in surprise. He'd actually been expecting it to be a bluff...

"Um, are you okay?" he asked his brother. Canada nodded. "Good. Uh, England'll take care of you, I guess." He swallowed as Russia stepped closer.

Russia closed the distance between them, unwinding his scarf for some reason. Then he flung one end around America's neck, loosely connecting them. Before anyone had time to react, Russia leaned in for a kiss. America could practically hear England's eyes roll. To be perfectly honest, though, it wasn't that bad of a kiss.

Russia broke away and touched their foreheads together. "I _really_ do like your eyes."

"Oh god, what have I done..."


	2. Chapter 2

_Russia asks the other countries for dating advice._

_Another second chapter I hadn't anticipated writing, but it called to me. XD_

_Disclaimer: Hetalia's not mine._

* * *

Realizing he did not seem to have a destination in mind, Russia slowed to a stop, frowning. He reached out to grab hold of America's belt and jerk him to a stop.

"What?" Russia's date demanded.

"Wait here for a moment." Russia started to leave, but changed his mind. He stepped closer to America, gripping his collar and tugging him close. "Don't go anywhere," he added, and America swallowed. The sight of his Adam's apple bobbing in his silky neck was so enticing, Russia just had to lean over and give it a lick. Then he turned and walked out of hearing range, pulling his phone out. He selected a number on speed dial and pressed it.

"Hello, England," he said pleasantly when the other nation answered. "I could use some advice. For my date."

"Are you _daft?_" the voice on the other end snapped. "Why the hell would I give you advice? You can go ahead and creep America out until he runs away."

Russia sighed. "You will not go uncompensated."

"What could you _possibly_ have that I would want?"

"Hmm... I do not like to share, but I suppose I can be a generous winner. I will slip something into America's drink, then you can-"

"_What!?_ No! Ugh! God, Russia, no, no!"

"Then what would you like?"

There was a long pause on the other end; Russia started to wonder if England had hung up. Then finally, "All right. I'll give you some advice, if you promise not to sleep with America."

"Is that all? Very well."

"I mean it! Promise you won't sleep with him!"

"I promise, I won't sleep with America." English euphemisms were so cute. Russia hadn't been planning on sticking around and sleeping with America after they had sex, anyway. "Now tell me where I should take him that he will enjoy."

"Well I should think the answer to that is obvious. Take him somewhere his interests lie. A restaurant would always be a good choice. Or a baseball game. Or an action-packed movie."

"Hmm." None of those really appealed to Russia. Except the restaurant idea, but it seemed so _boring_ and traditional. And besides, he knew what kind of food America liked... "What other interests and hobbies does he have?"

"Um. You know... cowboys, heroes, archeology, junk food, working out... American things."

"Hmm. Thank you, England, you have been helpful."

"You're wel-" Russia hung up.

Just his luck, dating somebody with the most useless interests. How could one make an interesting date out of working out, or cowboys? His mind provided him with unwelcome images of those photo studios where you dressed up in period costumes, and he shuddered. What were some of the other ones... heroes, archeology...

Archeology! That was just digging up things that were long dead. Well, if that was what America enjoyed...

* * *

"I really think we've made a wrong turn..." America hugged himself as he followed after the taller nation, stealing wary glances at their surroundings. It wasn't the _best_ part of town. There weren't any restaurants, or clubs, or theaters, or anything else one did on a date. What _did_ Russia do on a date? That was not a good line of thought, because his mind supplied him with images of shackles and riding crops. _Nooo, bad brain!_

"No, this is the right place." Russia stopped before an iron gate. The gate to a... cemetery?

"Dude, seriously, this is not the right place." America backed away. He backed away further when Russia turned around, holding a pair of shovels. "What the hell? Where did those come from?"

"You like archeology, da?" Russia shoved one of the tools into America's hands.

"Well, yeah. You know, digging up dinosaur fossils? Stealing idols from tribesmen? Not _grave-digging_, that's not archeology!"

"There are no dinosaur fossils or tribesmen here," Russia said, shoving open the gate. "This is as close as we will get in this city."

"Surely there must be _something_ else we could—wait! Don't leave me alone here!" America hefted his shovel and jogged after the retreating Russian. They weaved between headstones, America being careful not to step on any actual graves. They weren't really going to... dig something up, were they? That was the best way to incur the wrath of ghosts! "I really don't think this is a good idea. It's disrespectful!"

"We'll put everything back the way we found it," Russia said, coming to a stop at a particular headstone.

"Why this one?"

"I like the name."

America peered closer. "Ivan Jones... what a creepy coincidence."

"Both are common names," Russia said pleasantly, jamming his shovel into the dirt.

"Does this mean you'd take my last name?" America tried for humor to diffuse the horrid situation.

"Does this mean you're thinking about us marrying?"

So much for that. "No."

"Come help me. This activity is for your enjoyment."

Heaving a sigh, America spun his shovel around and scooped up a pile of grave dirt. "This is so wrong."

"But exciting, da? We are digging up ancient bones, just like your heroes. And we could be caught at any moment, adding to the thrill."

"Then this guy will come back to haunt us..."

"If that is your concern, I will protect you from any ghosts."

"You better." America tossed a shovel-ful of dirt aside, and dug out another. To make things easier, he tried to at least pretend they were uncovering some really awesome old fossil.

* * *

Russia occasionally glanced over at his new significant other, noting with a frown that America still did not seem to be enjoying their date. He was, however, able to heft huge shovel-fuls of dirt like they were nothing. Next time they did this, Russia would have to pick a nice warm day instead of a cold night. Less clothing to cover working muscles.

When America's shovel clanged against something hard, he gave a whine and Russia supposed that was enough for now. "Start covering it back up."

"You're not going to open it?" America's grateful expression was adorable.

"Not this time. I'll be right back." He briskly strode away, retrieving his phone and selecting a different number. "Canada. It's Russia. I don't think England's dating advice is working."

"Russia?" The other nation sounded nervous. Understandable, their last meeting had been a little tense, what with the kidnapping and all. "Um. _England_ gave you dating advice? Really?"

"We made a deal. But America still doesn't look happy. I need some more advice."

"Well... he likes to talk about himself. Have you tried just talking?"

Russia rubbed his chin with his free hand. Yes, America did like to talk... "No. I will do that."

"And ask him personal questions, you know? Show that you're interested. There's nothing better than a man who _listens_."

"Right. I will listen. Thank you, Canada." Russia hung up and returned to America, who seemed to be refilling the hole with much more enthusiasm than he had digging it. "Come here. Let's talk."

"I'm trying to finish this," America said, quickly tossing in the dirt.

"It's good enough. _Come here_."

America threw down the shovel and stepped closer, arms crossed. He looked so cute, Russia just wanted to bite his pouting lip. "Let's sit and talk."

"No way! Not _here_!"

He sure was high maintenance. Beckoning the American to follow, Russia returned the way they had come, soon leaving the cemetery behind. He located an alley that would allow them some privacy, and he made that his destination.

"Why here?" America whined. Was he never happy?

"So that we can talk in privacy, of course."

"No! I am not going into an alley with you. If you want to talk, let's find somewhere nice." And America stalked off, forcing Russia to follow for a change. He smiled to himself, enjoying the slightly more forceful attitude.

They ended up in a much more pleasant neighborhood, eventually sitting together on a park bench. Russia scooted closer to America (and America scooted away) until the young nation was on the brink of falling off.

"So... what did you want to talk about?" America's eyed him warily.

"I want you to tell me about yourself." Here it came. America's heart would melt, and he would open up about his childhood or something like that.

"Um. What about me?"

Well, present company's intelligence had to be taken into consideration. "Anything. What do you like to tell about yourself?"

"Uh..."

"What do you and your boss talk about?"

America's eyes flashed. "So _that's_ what this is all about!"

Russia chuckled. It had been worth a try. Okay, so what else had Canada said? Ask _personal_ questions. He was familiar with that. How many times had someone told him "I'm not telling you that, don't ask such personal questions!" He thought for a moment, and asked, "So when did you lose your virginity?"

America spluttered, face reddening. "_What?_"

"I want to know."

"No!"

"Do you have any interesting kinks?"

"I'm not telling!"

"What's the worst thing you've-"

"I've had enough of this date." America quickly stood from the bench. Russia didn't allow him to get far before maneuvering ahead of him and knocking him flat onto his back on the ground, and straddling him.

"Our date isn't over yet." He poked the blond's nose. "Okay?"

"Right!" Ah, those wide blue eyes...

"Now you wait here. I'll be right back."

"Sure!"

Russia stood, smiling down at America before retreating once again, making another call. "Germany, it's Russia. I need some advice for my date with America."

"Hmm," said Germany's voice. "Have you tried a dating book? I'm sure I saw one about Americans."

Russia hesitated a moment, then said, "Put Italy on the phone."

"What makes you think he's here?"

"Just put him on."

After a silent moment, the phone was shuffled around, and a much more cheerful voice greeted him. Russia repeated his dilemma.

"Ve~ I never knew you were the romantic type, Russia!"

"Well I am."

"Food is the best way to win someone over, of course!"

"I have already considered that. Restaurants just seem like such a cliché choice."

"A home-cooked meal is even better! There's nothing as romantic as cooking for someone."

"Home-cooked, you say." That seemed like a good idea. "Thank you, Italy."

America was right where he had left him, on his back in the grass. Russia helped him to his feet. "Come. We are going to get something to eat."

"Now you're talking!"

* * *

America eagerly followed Russia through the etched glass doors, into the wonderful-smelling, expensive-looking room beyond. There were even violinists serenading diners! The date had been beyond weird so far, but now they were getting somewhere! Not that places like that served _good _food, but it would be better than what he had imagined.

"Wait, where are you going?" America reached out to tug on Russia's scarf, but he kept walking. "I'm pretty sure we wait here to be seated. Russia...?"

"I'm not having them serve us their uncreative swill. I'm making you a nice home-cooked meal."

America stared after him, jaw dropping. What was happening? "If you want to cook, why are we in a restaurant? Russia! _Russia!_"

But he just walked off, striding through the restaurant, heading right for the kitchen. Desperately wanting to just leave, but feeling a _little_ worried about the repercussions, America simply stood where he was and waited. A few minutes passed, then the kitchen doors swung open again, letting quite a few terrified chefs run out. America stepped aside to let them pass. Yeah, that was about right...

The wait staff seemed a bit preoccupied, so America selected an empty table himself and settled down in the fancy chair. Nobody swung by to offer him water, so he helped himself; the couple that had occupied the table next to him had fled along with the chefs, leaving their water glasses behind. More time passed, and America entertained himself by setting up a war among the tableware.

When Russia finally emerged, he was wearing a chef's hat and an oven mitt. He was carrying what appeared to be a pizza.

"You made that?" America asked, nervous, as he approached the table.

"I did. You like this, right?"

"Well, yes, but... what did you make it with?" His imagination was not being friendly.

Russia set the pizza down on the center of the table, after shoving the battling tableware aside with his free arm. "Dough, tomato sauce, mozzarella cheese, and pepperoni. Should I have used something else?"

"No, no." America sagged back in his chair in relief. "That sounds good." He eagerly helped himself to a slice, but not before noticing that the pepperoni had been arranged in a happy face.

* * *

"I still don't see why we couldn't have gone to your house," Russia said as he let them into his hotel room. Now he'd have to kick America out after sex, rather than just slip away, to keep his promise to England.

"No way."

"Aren't you enjoying our date?"

"Doesn't mean I'm letting you into my house."

Russia smiled. America hadn't denied enjoying the date. Excellent. Now he just had one last problem... "If you will excuse me." He slipped back into the hallway, tugging out his phone for one last time. The next one to call was obvious. He selected the first number on speed dial and waited.

"France. It's Russia. My date with America is going well and I've got him in my hotel room. How do I get him to agree to consensual sex?"

"Ah, how splendid! Do fill me in on all the details tomorrow."

"Um..."

"Getting someone into bed is easy! All it takes is a little wine, a little porn, and sweeping them off their feet!"

"Okay." Russia ran through the list in his head. That didn't sound hard. "Thank you, France."

"You're welcome, _mon chaton_."

"What did you just call me?" But France had already hung up.

* * *

America looked up when the door opened again. "Hey, Russia. I was just seeing what was on TV, you seemed to be taking a long time. Hey, what do you have there?"

"Wine." Russia held up a bottle in one hand and a pair of long-stemmed glasses in the other. "Let me pour us some."

"Uh, sure." He scooted aside to give Russia plenty of room on the couch, though he chose to sit close, of course. Russia maneuvered the cork out with a corkscrew he had on his person for some reason, and the glasses were filled with the garnet liquid. America picked his glass up and, with a shrug, tapped it against Russia's before taking a sip.

"Let's watch porn," Russia said, and America spat out his mouthful of wine, starting to cough.

"_What?_"

"That sounds like fun." Russia swiped the remote. "Let's see what this hotel has to offer."

"_I don't want to watch porn!_"

"This sounds like a good one."

"No it doesn't!" But before he knew it, the movie was starting.

"Oh, look at that," Russia said mildly. "That bus full of cheerleaders broke down. I hope they can find help at that fraternity house."

America groaned. "Do we have to watch this?"

"I want to find out what happens."

"I think we can _guess_."

"Finish your wine, _mon chaton_."

Wait, what? America blinked. "Was that French? What does it mean?"

"I don't know."

So they drank their wine and watched the cheesy porn. The frat boys and cheerleaders all had a very good time, as did the pizza delivery boy who stopped by halfway through. The bottle and the movie were finished at about the same time. America couldn't wait to get away.

"Come." Russia set his glass aside and stood.

"Gladly." America also stood, stretching muscles that had been sitting dormant too long. He turned away, hoping Russia didn't see his... current condition. It had been a stupid movie, but he was still a guy, after all. And so, he didn't see what Russia was doing until it was too late. America yelped when he was scooped up into Russia's arms.

"What are you _doing_? Put me down, right now!"

"No. We're going into my room."

"What?"

"My room. To complete the date."

America considered this. He could protest and face the presumably severe consequences, or he could go along with it and blame the wine in the morning. That wouldn't be too hard, the wine had already gone to his head.

Besides. Maybe afterward, Russia would never send him small condoms again.

"Whatever. Let's go."

* * *

_Mon chaton = my kitten_


End file.
